An Outside Eye
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: An exploration of John and Sherlock's relationship through the eyes of Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson, told in snippets. Eventual Johnlock. Unrequited Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**This was inspired by John's comment in the Great Game about watching too much telly with Mrs. Hudson, and Molly saying that Sherlock complained to her about John in Scandal in Belgravia. **

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

A week had passed since John moved in with Sherlock and solved the case with the cabbie, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't be happier. They were getting along as well as they could, for a reclusive army doctor and a brilliant, if not egotistical, detective.

She'd grown accustomed to most of Sherlock's unique mannerisms, and it was a source of great entertainment for her to hear or see John experience them. He didn't always react as drastically as she, though that was to be expected, but he did bellow a lot. Cursing often accompanied his discovery of limbs and organs in various kitchen items, or the strange, and often destructive, experiments, especially when they were performed on the doctor.

Sherlock's lazy demands were often met with melodramatic sighs and obnoxiously loud footsteps, when they were heeded. She knew that the detective could be rather lazy and demanding, and early on, she'd ignored his hollered requests. He always seemed to interpret her unresponsiveness as a disability, a product of poor hearing. It tickled her to think that she'd outsmarted him.

Though this was the first time she'd ever been his landlady, she'd housed him before, years ago when he'd helped her put her husband behind bars. She'd experienced Sherlock's quirks at a lower stage of his life, a time where he was high during a majority of their interactions. Which escalated his quirkiness, though she hadn't minded. The detective was always good to Mrs. Hudson, and he'd done more than enough for her. Even if his unusual habits bothered her, she wouldn't have chastised him for it. He had been more than helpful, and it wasn't her place to judge someone's quirks when she had plenty of her own.

Of course, that didn't mean she'd never been caught off guard by Sherlock's habits. Mrs. Hudson was still startled by the organs and/or limbs she would come across in the detective's fridge, but for the most part, Sherlock's behavior ceased being abnormal. The detective's air of aloof other-worldliness ensnared her in ways she hadn't anticipated; he'd quickly become like a son to her. The more she began to see him as her family, the less awkward Sherlock became. His frosty exterior didn't put her off like it did others.

John, it seemed, was equally tolerant of a majority of Sherlock's quirks. The army doctor had many of his own, Mrs. Hudson had seen, but they complimented each other.

Despite their chemistry and quick partnership, when John respectfully asked if he could have tea with Mrs. Hudson, she expected the reason to be because Sherlock had driven him away. The army doctor had patience, but there was only so much most people could take. He didn't seem like the sort of man to flee from an annoying flat mate, though.

She prepared their tea, and they sat awkwardly in front of her telly. She'd been half-listening to Connie Prince's show before John had arrived, but the telly seemed ten times louder than it had been fifteen minutes ago, though the volume hadn't increased from its previous setting that she was aware of. Connie Prince scolded a girl loudly about the horrors of wearing bright yellow with her skin tone; perhaps it was just the woman's voice that gave the illusion of change. Connie could fluctuate from braying to whispering in mere seconds; it wasn't impossible or implausible to place blame on her.

Mrs. Hudson looked away from the woman, fixing her gaze instead on the mildly amused army doctor.

"Is this what passes for television these days?" He asked, fixated by the beauty show.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "It isn't the worst show out there. Just the other day, I saw a show about two woman selling other women undergarments. Quite strange, really, and I don't see why it should be on the telly."

"That does sound worse than this," John murmured as he raised the cup to his lips.

There was a comfortable pause as both drank their tea and stared absentmindedly at the telly.

She didn't know what he was thinking, but Mrs. Hudson thought him too at ease to be fleeing Sherlock. What little attention he truly paid to Connie Prince was an adorable blend of amusement and horror, though at what exactly she didn't know. Maybe he just thought the idea of him watching a beauty show was absurd.

Come to think of it, it was rather funny to see an army doctor paying any attention to Connie Prince, though perhaps what tickled her the most about it was not the man's past profession, but his current. Sure, Sherlock wasn't paying him for assistance, but it was an exchange of services, even if Sherlock wasn't aware of it.

The detective let Mrs. Hudson interfere in his life because he trusted her, but there were things he needed that she couldn't give that maybe John could. And, in exchange, the army doctor could assist Sherlock, though the detective didn't seem to need much help with solving cases. He'd done well enough with his intellect and Scotland Yard to truly need a coworker.

She'd seen the way Sherlock acted around John during the case with the suicides. Sherlock was never that excited about a case so mundane, even if it challenged his intellect somewhat. It was obvious to her that the detective was showing off, was trying to impress the army doctor. It had worked tremendously; John's demeanor completely changed after Sherlock when back to the flat for him.

She'd also seen the way they laughed in the hallway, their euphoria thick and rich in the cool autumn night. She'd seen Sherlock's grin as he shouted to Mrs. Hudson that John would, in fact, take the room upstairs. She'd seen Sherlock's grin widen as John stared at him in awe, at the detective who'd cured his limp.

Mrs. Hudson looked at John. He still bore the remnants of that night; it was in his posture, in his eyes. From the moment she met the army doctor, he held himself with a stiff wariness and strange emptiness that shook her to the core. Now, he was slightly softened, the promise of adventure and mystery already seeping into his countenance, slowly entering the void in his eyes. He wasn't whole, far from it, but it looked as though he could be, someday.

"Where's Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, wrapping both hands around her empty cup.

"Out," John replied. "Said he had something to do at the morgue." He sounded entertained at the thought of the detective spending spare time at the morgue, and Mrs. Hudson grinned as she reached for John's empty cup with her free hand and took them to her sink.

It didn't sound like John would be fleeing any time soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Molly's POV**

* * *

Molly stood awkwardly behind Sherlock, scanning the cluttered counter for a spot for Sherlock's coffee. He hadn't asked for it this time, but she'd noticed the bags under the detective's eyes and his jittery limbs as he flounced into her lab and asked for access, though they both knew it was unnecessary. Sherlock would use her or someone else's equipment without their permission when they weren't around, should she refuse. Not that she would, of course. She couldn't refuse the detective, and he knew it.

He didn't know why, of course. He never spared her enough attention to understand that her kindness stemmed from stronger roots than courtesy, that her generosity was bestowed upon him selfishly, so that he would remain in her presence, so that she could witness his moments of enlightenment.

His eyes would light up, his body would propel itself out of her laboratory, sometimes with a passing glance and casual remark, and, after a few hours or days, reports of a befuddling crime would surface, all ending with the criminal(s) apprehended. Molly loved every newspaper article or television broadcast involving said solved crimes. Pride would swell within her as the reporter marveled at the findings, pride for Sherlock; satisfaction would warm her insides as she realized that his odd experiment(s) in her laboratory, visits filled with strange requests and little interaction, aided the detective in solving the case.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, interrupting Molly's musings. She found a clear space on the counter and set the warm cup down. Before releasing the beverage, she glanced at Sherlock's face. He still looked tired, but there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes, one that didn't seem to originate from the head Sherlock's hand was currently plunged into.

His eyes flickered toward her, meeting her not-so-subtle gaze. Her cheeks flamed, and she all but leapt away from him.

"I thought I'd give you coffee. You looked horrible- well, not horrible like ugly, just um exhausted," Molly blurted as her embarrassment rose to new heights.

Sherlock blinked, confusion flashing momentarily in his eyes. He continued to stare at her, the solitary blink his only movement. Even his right hand remained still in the poor woman's head. His mind seemed miles away as his eyes hardened with their usual apathetic iciness.

"So, um, what's this for then? Another case?"

"Just an experiment," Sherlock replied as he took his hand out of the severed head. He plopped the head into its container and ripped off his dirty gloves, his gaze swiftly sweeping up and down her body once before falling upon the packaged head. "I need to take this home for further examination; would you mind?"

Molly could tell Sherlock was anxious to leave, but it was a strange sort of antsy behavior that she'd never seen before. Disappointment mingled with her curiosity, loosening her tongue.

"Leaving so soon? What else needs to be done to the head? I can get you the equipment, if you'd like." Molly's face heated, and she hated her embarrassing babbling.

Strangely enough, Sherlock looked as uncomfortable as she felt for a moment. He paused awkwardly, gaze fixed resolutely on her forehead. It was no doubt meant to trick her into thinking that he was actually looking at her, but she wasn't fooled. She knew very well what it felt like when he looked at her properly (an event as rare as it was memorable), and this wasn't it. "I must be going- I left an experiment in the microwave back at the flat. I should probably remove it before John sees it."

_John?_ Jealousy flared in Molly. Who was John? Was he a flat mate, or something more?

It was the first time she'd ever heard him mention anyone that had nothing to do with Scotland Yard or Mrs. Hudson, so surely he must be a newer acquaintance.

Was it the short blonde man she'd seen interacting with Sherlock and Mike Stamford the other day?

"John?" Molly asked.

"My flat mate," Sherlock replied absentmindedly as he tied his scarf around his neck. He flipped up his coat collar and grasped the container, hesitating briefly before sauntering out of her lab, his steps tinged with pride old and new, a slight happiness softening his abrupt departure.

"Bye," Molly murmured to an empty room, eyes falling upon the untouched coffee mug.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

The next time John visited Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't out of boredom. This time, it followed loud, one-sided fighting (John shouting at a no doubt seemingly indifferent detective plastered on the couch, hands clasped together in an ironic position mimicking prayer and eyes fixed on the ceiling or closed); this time, there was little doubt in Mrs. Hudson's mind as to why John stomped down the stairs, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.

The doctor stood at the foot of the stairs, glaring at the front door and clenching his phone in shaking fists. She didn't know what he was waiting for; however, despite the loud altercations, it was clear that he truly didn't want to leave. His glare faltered into a bleary stare before hardening resolutely.

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the tense hallway and cleared her throat. John swiveled to face her, the tension melting somewhat from his body as he yanked his lips into an unnecessary smile.

"Sorry you had to hear that," the doctor spoke, voice hoarse from shouting. It was such a stark contrast to the tone she'd heard not five minutes ago, that, had she not become acquainted with his character, the quick shift in demeanor would've unnerved her.

However, as she knew him to be a good, caring man (though she'd never say this to his face; she doubted that he would appreciate it), she only felt a prickle of sadness. Though it didn't shock her to hear them fight, it was something she didn't care much for.

"Do you want to cool down in my flat?"

This time, John's grin was genuine. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

"Would you like a cuppa? I've found that a good cup of tea and mindless telly can be very relaxing," Mrs. Hudson offered as she led the doctor into her flat.

"Both sound good, actually," John replied as he sat on her couch. "Could I have some biscuits, too?"

She nodded as she turned on the telly, a mindless game show filling the comfortable silence. She heard the familiar click of the remote as she prepared their tea. When she returned to the living room, two cuppas in hand and biscuits precariously balanced in her arms, Mrs. Hudson was tickled to find that it was now Connie Prince who filled the room.

John awkwardly fiddled with the buttons but made no move to expel the woman from the screen. He slowly relaxed as the hours passed, conversation sporadic and centered on the ongoing makeover show which, rather conveniently for them, was practically the only show the particular channel ever aired.

"I don't see how that outfit would be particularly attractive on her," John commented as the episode came to a close, the newly-remade woman strutting away from the camera as Connie's continuous stream of babble was cut off by a commercial.

"To each his own, I guess," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I think she looked pretty like that. Pink doesn't suit everyone, but it looked good on her, I think. I've definitely seen worse."

"True," John chuckled as he stood. "The girl with the blue hair looked worse after the makeover."

"She did."

The doctor thanked her for the company and made to leave the flat.

"Thank you for accompanying me," Mrs. Hudson replied. "If I may ask, why were you two fighting?"

John immediately fell silent, his movements halting and his mouth a straight line. Reserved, just like the detective, except he placed more emphasis on emotion while Sherlock prized logic and intelligence. Two sides of a coin, in that, while both were composed of the same material, their surfaces told different stories.

Just when she expected him to ignore the question, a self-deprecating chuckle tore itself from his lips. "He mixed my food with his severed limbs in the fridge without specifying which was which, and I accidentally began eating one of his samples."


	4. Chapter 4

**Molly's POV**

* * *

Molly was swamped, to put it lightly. Two of her colleagues were out sick, afflicted with the current flu plaguing half of London, and she was left alone to inspect and analyze five corpses, two of which needed extra care as they were, apparently, crucial to a current murder investigation. Lestrade had brought them in that morning, cordial as ever and surprisingly awake for six in the morning. Granted, it wasn't that unusual for either of them to be up early, especially when it came to their jobs, but he'd been a bit peppier around the morgue than herself, and she knew that she was abnormally comfortable around death.

Between picking up the slack and prioritizing Lestrade's corpses, Molly was exhausted, and it wasn't even noon. Time usually wasn't an issue for her, though her exhaustion was accompanied by impatience; she found her gaze wandering to the clock every five minutes or so. If she was being honest with herself, at one point, her attention was almost constantly split between paperwork and the clock, its rhythmic ticking grating on her nerves, forcing itself into her mind without consent.

After three hours of insanity, Molly couldn't take it anymore. Her eyes burned, the words blurred together on the paper into ineligible scribbles, and her mind was throbbing in time with the clock. She tapped the pen once, twice, against her desk before hastily standing, nearly sending numerous pens and pieces of paper falling to the ground. Without sparing a backward glance at her desk, Molly rushed for the door, closed it behind her, and locked it. She wandered through the halls, ignoring her protesting stomach in favor of spending as much time as possible out of her lab. It just wasn't her day; she couldn't wait for it to be over.

When she finally got to the lunchroom, she wasn't surprised to find that the food remained dull and mediocre, with bland if not decent flavors and selections that were just unsatisfactory enough to disappoint her. It wasn't as though she was craving anything in particular, though when she saw 'meatloaf' scrawled messily in blurred chalk above the line, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd done to deserve such boredom.

_Maybe that's it, _Molly thought as she sat at a table and stared at the unappealing lump of food, _maybe my reward for doing nothing is nothing. _She sighed and stabbed her fork into the meat. Maybe she should volunteer more at the local animal shelter or something. For karma's sake, or whatever.

Slowly but surely, she choked down the bland lunch. The process itself of stabbing and crushing and swallowing had taken decades, yet it seemed as though she'd just sat down with the meal.

Sometimes, Molly really hated how fickle time could be. If only it would pass one way or another, quickly or slowly, rather than an awkward, lumpy blend of the two. Her day was as dull and lifeless as the meatloaf she'd choked down, but then again, how much more interesting was working in a morgue supposed to be? In retrospect, her job did revolve around corpses; a job with real people sounded torturously hideous, a grimmer prospect than handling the dead.

At least with corpses she knew what to expect, knew what to look for and how to interpret what snagged her attention, most of the time. Live humans were practically another species, one she could hold her own with, but didn't find as relaxing as corpses. Death wasn't uncomplicated, but corpses didn't hold sway over her emotions, didn't fluster her, didn't-

The door opened smoothly, and Sherlock sauntered through, sparing a quick, cursory glance at Molly before analyzing the corpse before her.

"Lestrade asked for my help on the case with the murderers. Might I see the bodies, then?" He asked as he leaned over the occupied table. "I assume this is one of them?"

"Yes," Molly replied as the detective slipped on gloves and began to inspect the man's hair. "I'm... _I'm _supposed to be inspecting the corpses, Sherlock. Lestrade specifically requested my help."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, still entirely focused on the corpse. "I'm sure he did. Still, my assistance was requested as well. Besides, two sets of eyes are better than one, no?"

"I guess," Molly muttered as she inched closer to the corpse, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest as she grew closer to Sherlock. Forcing herself to relax, Molly focused all of her attention on the body before her, though no amount of control could quell the elation that swelled in her when she'd reached the same conclusion as the detective, not because it bolstered her intelligence, but because they were on the same page.

Sherlock murmured deductions, the more medical ones already occupying her thoughts, for a few moments after their analysis was complete. Molly was somewhat shocked to find that time had passed quickly during their partnership, hours slipping away like sand through open fingers. The detective ripped off his gloves and quickly texted someone, no doubt Lestrade, about the cases.

When he was finished, rather than exit quickly and dramatically, Sherlock paused by one of the lab benches. Molly busied herself with papers, knowing full well that he was waiting to say something to her and that she was waiting for him to blurt it out, but she couldn't help giving him the illusion of her ignorance.

"Molly," The detective began after a pause.

"Yes?" She asked, painting just enough embarrassed shock on her face to appear as though she'd forgotten he was there.

"If I were to have participated in an... unsatisfactory experience for someone, what would be the appropriate response?"

Hope fluttered painfully in her chest, thousands of possibilities and reasons for his question all rendered void as she thought only of the question being asked to her about her, even though it was far more likely to hear Sherlock say that Anderson was smarter than himself. "It depends on what you did, how involved you were in the experience. If you were very involved, I would say doing something you'd know they'd appreciate."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "John does complain that I don't buy the groceries often enough... No," the detective replied, "that's moronic. I don't do _shopping._"

Disappointment flooded Molly. She cursed herself for ever allowing hope to blossom in her heart and mind when she knew Sherlock would never notice her, especially not in the way she'd like. She busied herself with cleaning up the corpse, not trusting herself to speak without giving herself away fully. There was no telling how much he could deduce without her verbally broadcasting her emotions.

"Oh," He breathed, and Molly couldn't help but glance at him. "I could take up the Jaria diamond case. Tedious, I think, but John did seem intrigued by it." He whirled away from the bench, only to pause once more. "Thank you, Molly," He said as he fled her lab without a backwards glance.

And, despite her previous heartache, Molly couldn't help but grin at his parting comment. His declaration of gratitude almost made up for her wounded pride.

Almost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

The boys tromped up the stairs, their steps heavy with exhaustion and relief, both emotions so strongly saturating the atmosphere that Mrs. Hudson could do nothing but stand still for a minute in silence and thank the powers that be that the boys were alive and well. A sudden, powerful urge to see her boys overpowered Mrs. Hudson. As quickly as she froze, she burst into motion, fleeing from her flat and tethering her panic into determination.

Impatience overwhelmed her, and she abandoned all pretenses of control and ignorance as she hastened up the staircase. Upon arriving at the half-open door to their flat, however, Mrs. Hudson could only gape at the scene before her. Shock, and perhaps wonder, shoved her impatience aside as she watched the detective carefully examine a bloody injury on the side of John's head.

Sherlock's hands deftly mended the injury, and Mrs. Hudson watched as he carefully dabbed a wet cloth on it, his admiring gaze sweeping over the doctor's resolutely still form. Sherlock tended to the wound slowly, though she knew he was purposefully taking his time.

"It won't require stitches," Sherlock murmured.

John hummed in response, and the detective's ministrations continued in silence. Mrs. Hudson knew she should turn away, give the boys some privacy, but she couldn't help herself. She was transfixed by the uncharacteristic softness both men donned in the privacy of their flat. John always gazed at Sherlock as though he was the center of the universe, but, in the soft light of night, Mrs. Hudson discovered that Sherlock gazed at John as though he was the only person in the world.

It was perfectly sentimental, and the irony was not lost on her.

"Thank you," John said as Sherlock finished.

The detective met his gaze, their faces inches apart. "It wouldn't do to have my doctor not taken care of."

John smiled, and the two remained frozen for a moment longer before Sherlock blinked and recoiled as though burned, breaking the spell. The doctor rose and went into the kitchen, his voice low and melodious as he asked the detective whether or not he wanted tea.

Mrs. Hudson snuck away from the door, curiosity forgotten as a smile lit her face and joy bubbled within her.

She could get the full story from John another time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Molly's POV**

* * *

Fear wrapped its slimy tentacles around Molly as she fought for control, for composure. She was going to focus on her work, not the problem at hand. She was _not _going to let it taint her work. The detective had never affected her that strongly before, and he wasn't about to now. Contrary to popular belief, Molly wasn't so pathetically infatuated with Sherlock that she would allow her work ethic to slip in favor of fawning over him her every waking moment.

Molly shoved the detective out of her thoughts, and the morning trickled by without a second mental interruption. Only once she was finished with her first few tasks did Molly allow her thoughts to wander to her previous problem, her mind a whirl as she began to clean her instruments.

Sherlock was two hours late to their appointment of sorts, and it wasn't like him to arrive late. Whenever she had time to send him home with leftover organs, he'd always arrived exactly when he said he would. In all of the years she'd known him, he'd never missed it without explanation.

What if he'd gotten injured or worse during their latest case? She hadn't seen Lestrade around at all, and Sherlock had briefly visited her a few days ago.

Her heart beat wildly, and her hands began to shake. Setting her instrument down carefully on the rack, she exhaled and inhaled slowly. It wouldn't do to let her emotions control her; not when she had no right to be so upset over Sherlock.

Besides, this was Sherlock Holmes she was fussing over. She had nothing to worry about; he was probably perfectly fine, perfectly-

Her phone chimed, alerting her to a new text message, and Molly nearly dropped the device in anxious haste.

Can't come in today. Could you bring the organs to the flat?- SH

Molly's heart beat wildly as her thumbs flew across the keypad.

Of course! I'll be over in a few- MH

Molly glanced at the clock and sighed. An hour and a half of her break left (her cleanup occupying the first ten minutes), and it was going to be spent delivering objects that were probably illegal to remove from the building to a brilliant detective pitifully ignorant of her existence unless it benefitted him.

The things she did for love.

* * *

Upon arriving at Baker Street, Molly was immediately bombarded by Mrs. Hudson.

"Now you better not- Oh! Molly! When I heard the door I thought it was going to be Lestrade with another case," Mrs. Hudson greeted as she swung the door open wide.

"Nope, it's just me," Molly replied as she stepped into the dark entrance. "Why are the lights off?"

"Oh, Sherlock turned them all off. Him and John came bursting into the flat late last night, and it looked like John had a pretty bad head injury. That might have something to do with it." Mrs. Hudson's tone was light with familiar hope that stung Molly, though, after a pause, the elder woman's wistful smile faltered and her eyes were alight with sympathy. The only thing more obvious than Molly's feelings for Sherlock was the landlady's desire for the two men to shag.

Mrs. Hudson flipped the light switch without warning, silencing Molly's rising protests with a shooing motion. The pathologist smiled and murmured her thanks as she ascended the stairs carefully.

Before she could knock on the next door, it too swung open (had Mrs. Hudson picked up the habit from Sherlock, or was it the other way around?), though the action was unaccompanied by chatter. Sherlock held the door open for Molly and slowly closed it behind her.

Darkness engulfed the room, light occasionally peeking from patches of uncovered windows, barely illuminating the detective.

"Here you go," she murmured. "Is this why you couldn't come in today? John?"

"No," Sherlock replied as he accepted her delivery. "I had business to take care of."

_Liar, _Molly thought. _The only thing you took care of was John, and I hope he appreciates it. _

Sherlock didn't spare her a second glance as he opened the package and inspected his contents. Molly wasn't going to call him out on his lie, wasn't going to stoop to his level-

No. She had a right to speak her mind. Someone needed to squash Sherlock's ego, if only for a moment. He had no right to ignore her, not when she'd spent her lunch break catering to his demand.

"Be sure to clean up properly in between inspecting those kidneys and taking care of John," Molly snapped. "Wouldn't want him getting hurt because of you again."

Sherlock's horrified stare followed her the entire trip out of their flat, and it was only when she couldn't feel his embarrassed terror that the guilt reared its ugly head.


	7. Chapter 7

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

"Sherlock, what have you done now?" John asked, his voice, rough with sleep, floated down the stairs to where Mrs. Hudson stood, staring at the entrance with mixed emotions. Empathy rushed through the landlady; Molly's flight spoke volumes, though exactly what it meant remained unclear to her. On the other hand, anticipation filled her at witnessing the aftermath of the strange visit.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "Just a simple delivery."

"Sherlock," John scolded, "I'm not as unobservant as you'd like to think I am. That wasn't all that happened."

"You're making assumptions, again. Molly came to drop off some organs for me, then she had to go."

"Oh really? And _Molly Hooper _stomps down stairs when she's rushed? Sherlock, what did you do to her this time?"

"_I_ didn't do anything to _her_," the detective snapped.

There was a beat of silence before John spoke up again, exhaustion replaced with anger, his words sharp as knives. "What did she do to you?"

Mrs. Hudson shivered at the tone. Thank heavens she wasn't on the receiving end of John's wrath.

_I wonder what John's done to Donovan or Anderson, _the landlady thought. She smirked; whatever transpired between John and the insipid detectives was no doubt far more cordial than anything they deserved.

"I'm perfectly fine, John," Sherlock replied.

Another pause, infinitely warmer than its predecessor. "Well, with the way you tease her, Sherlock, it's no wonder she was upset with you. You do enjoy getting a rise out of people."

"You, in particular, are rather fascinating to observe. One minute, you're ready to rip a defenseless woman into shreds over mere conversation, and in the next, you're defending her honor on the grounds that I am a manipulator."

"Yes, well, I should've remembered that your ego deserves a good kick here and there." John sighed, and Mrs. Hudson heard footsteps moving toward the staircase. She ducked into her flat and strained to hear their conversation. Their voices were indiscernible for a moment as they mixed with the creaking stairs.

"-be careful, John," Sherlock continued as his voice grew closer. "You're-"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock; I know what I am doing, and I know my limits."

The voices and footsteps faded into silence, and the landlady opened her door, barely restraining herself from grinning widely at their exchange.

What she saw nearly obliterated what little self-control she had left.

John appeared to be perfectly fine, save for his tired features and head injury. He walked with a very slight limp, but his smile was unaltered as it beamed at her. Sherlock hovered protectively behind John, his eyes leaving the doctor's figure for a moment as they swept protectively, carefully over her before returning to him. Mrs. Hudson was sure he realized she'd been eavesdropping; his eyes narrowed, his cheeks flushed the tiniest bit pink, and his attention faltered ever so slightly, as though calculating the risks of continuing his illogical pestering in front of a witness. The detective's uncertainty lasted mere seconds before he continued his strange behavior.

"Sorry about all of the excitement lately," John apologized, though the glint in his eyes negated his words. He loved the excitement; truthfully, so did Mrs. Hudson.

"It's alright, love," she replied as she welcomed them inside. "If you don't mind my asking, what was all of the excitement about?"

John's grin widened. "It started when Sherlock and I went to the bank the other day. I didn't think that something as ordinary as going to the bank was going to result in a case, but I really should've known better, since this is Sherlock we're talking about, and..."

The doctor continued his tale, and Mrs. Hudson sat, spellbound both by the story itself and the behavior of the two men. John clearly embellished certain parts (though that was to be expected in storytelling), and Sherlock couldn't stand it. Though praise for the detective was heaped generously, and its reception was, sans verbal lashing, quite positive (a fond, exasperated glare, and cheeks that continued to remain lightly flushed), Sherlock fled from her flat halfway through the tale. It was the only time John faltered, and after the exodus, his voice grew slightly dimmer.

Despite the slight change, Mrs. Hudson adored John's story.

"You should really write down your adventures," the landlady suggested as she accompanied John to the door. "You've got a knack for storytelling; you make everything so interesting."

John smiled. "Maybe I should; Lord knows Sherlock would get a kick out of that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Molly's POV**

* * *

"The sample was excellent," Sherlock complimented. It was the third time he'd interrupted the awkward silence, and still Molly couldn't bring herself to properly reply. Instead, she forced a noncommittal grunt out of her mouth, one that stung painfully with suppressed frustration.

Oddly enough, the source of her aggravation wasn't the stoic detective before her (though the crumbling walls of his apathy, however minuscule, did elicit both discomfort and elation); no, it was her moronic computer, which remained steadfastly frozen despite her efforts. Of course, the day she needed it most, the day she hadn't uploaded the files for Lestrade onto a flash drive, she couldn't access them.

Molly slammed her hand on the desk, her rage at its peak. She couldn't, wouldn't, unleash her anger on Sherlock, not again. Though her rage had been slow-building, it evaporated in the blink of an eye, replaced with awkward embarrassment.

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw Sherlock flinch. The uncharacteristic action startled her; she'd never elicited a strong emotion from him single-handedly before.

_Why couldn't my computer have thawed instead of him?_

"My computer," she elaborated. "It's, um, malfunctioning. Again."

"Do you... Would you like me to examine it?" Sherlock glanced warily away from her face to the electronic in question, his tone, though pleasant, burdened with familiar obligatory courtesy.

"No, the I.T. man should be here soon."

Sherlock cast another hesitant glance at the machine. Molly clenched her fists, praying for Sherlock's detached, lazy mindset to eclipse whatever strange metamorphosis was taking hold of the detective. She didn't want him to feel obligated to her, to turn their camaraderie of sorts into a mere trade of services. She'd like to think that they were more than that. Barely, perhaps, but it was enough to elicit defensiveness.

_Look at that, the faux machine caring for a machine. _

"Really, it is fine, Sherlock," Molly said.

The detective blinked and returned his attention to the microscope slides. Molly tried to busy herself with different tasks, but she quickly finished them, and her attention never fully strayed from her dilemma. The silence thickened uncomfortably in the lab, though she did her best to ignore the way his eyes flickered constantly between her and the microscope, or how her heart raced uncomfortably throughout the awkward lull.

"Is something the matter?" Molly asked. "You seem distracted."

"Everything's fine. Why wouldn't everything be-"

"Well, for one thing, you're fidgety. You're never fidgety," she interrupted, "and, when you are having concentration problems, it's usually not about... it's usually about a case."

Sherlock paused, his features shifting between grudging respect for her analysis and an uncharacteristic uncertainty. To Molly's surprise, his features froze on the latter.

"John's safety is a priority of mine, though it can prove difficult to protect him when he's constantly throwing himself into danger."

Guilt flooded Molly as the memory of her acidic comment stung her mind. "Sherlock... That was over a month ago... What I said, and you know I'm sorry about saying it."

"Don't be. You were right."

"No, I wasn't. It wasn't, isn't, my place to tell you what to do."

Sherlock shook his head. "An outside eye is very useful to me, especially as I am unfamiliar with this sort of interaction."

Molly couldn't suppress a giggle. "Yeah, John's mentioned it."

"He has? When?" Sherlock's eyes flashed before slipping into their familiar apathetic scrutiny.

"He wrote about you in his blog; don't you read it?"

"He has a _blog_?" Sherlock sneered, his derisive tone contrasting with his twitching lips and intense gaze.

"Yeah, I think he just got it. There's only one entry, last I saw, and it was about the suicides. I think he enjoys living with you."

Sherlock straightened, pride oozing from his stance as he preened under the paraphrased praise. Molly smothered her jealousy, grudgingly shoving her affections aside in favor of his. "From what I know, he seems perfectly happy with throwing himself into danger for you."

"With me," the detective quietly corrected. "Not for me."

_I beg to differ. _"I'm just saying, I was wrong to accuse you of not taking care of him. It's his choice to help you, and I'm sure he is fully aware of the risks," Molly elaborated, though her words didn't appear to soothe his masked apprehension.

Sometimes, she really hated how well she knew Sherlock. She hated how he constantly hurt her, injured her feelings with careless words and a blind eye. She hated how jealous she was that every time the detective opened up to her, a phenomenon she'd dreamed of for years, it was about _John. _She hated how she smothered her feelings to soothe his. She hated how painful the whole ordeal was.

"I could show you his blog," she offered, "but my computer isn't working right. I could text you the link, later, if you'd like."

Someone knocked loudly on the door, and the detective slipped into his mask of ice and steel. He pulled on his coat and quickly tied his scarf before he moved to the door.

"If you could send me that information," Sherlock replied as he opened the door, "I'd appreciate it."

The detective's lithe body was replaced by a different man, one with short dark hair and a wide, if not slightly strange, grin.

"Hello, I'm Jim from I.T. I heard you were having computer problems?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

"Sherlock didn't like the blog," John blurted as he helped himself to Mrs. Hudson's tea. He'd wandered down some time after Mycroft flounced out of Baker Street, flustered by something or other (Sherlock, she hoped).

"Oh?" She asked, smothering a smirk. The doctor wasn't as familiar with the detective just yet; it was clear to her that Sherlock enjoyed the idea, though naturally he was a tad bit appalled with the way in which John explained his knowledge.

Mrs. Hudson peeked in routinely that day after accidently eavesdropping on Sherlock's monologue about John and his choice of descriptions being "ridiculously romanticized," and after his ranting subsided, he'd flung himself onto the couch and sulked for the rest of the day.

Yes, sulked. Mrs. Hudson knew the difference between deducing and sulking, thank you very much, and she was beyond certain that he'd been doing the latter.

Despite his exaggerated disapproval, however, it was evident that, on some level, the detective appreciated the blogger for his writing. It was obvious that Sherlock was somewhat flattered by it, even if the writing wasn't what he'd expected. Quite frankly, though, Mrs. Hudson hadn't thought he'd been expecting much of anything; then again, it was Sherlock, and who knew what he expected from people he actually liked.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson continued, "if he'd truly hated it, he would've removed it."

John carefully sat on her couch and tilted his head in confusion. "He would've, wouldn't he? Things have been hectic, though; he'll probably do it later. There is quite a mess upstairs from the explosion."

"Well, I certainly won't be cleaning it."

"Yes, I know," John replied, his eyes sparkling with merriment. "'You're our landlady, not our housekeeper.'"

Mrs. Hudson smiled and returned her attention to the telly, where the beauty show babbled pleasantly in the background of their conversation. Curiosity tugged painfully at her thoughts regarding John's fixation with Sherlock's opinion of his blog, but she ignored it.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Sherlock burst into her flat, eyes immediately falling upon John.

"Did something happen? I thought my absence was necessary for your thought process," John spoke, his urgent tone softened faintly with amusement.

"It would be faster if the both of us prepared Carl Powers' shoes for examination," Sherlock replied. "If you're not too busy?"

Mrs. Hudson was unprepared for their attention to focus entirely on her, and she quickly sent John off with an understanding smile that widened into a smirk when their backs were turned. There was absolutely no need for John to assist Sherlock; he'd performed more elaborate cases single-handedly on numerous occasions; however, she was not irritated nor perplexed by the interruption.

Mrs. Hudson understood the situation far better than either of the men, a genius and a war veteran, and she couldn't help but feel a tad bit smug.

It was only a matter of time before they saw what she had long ago.


	10. Chapter 10

**Molly's POV**

* * *

Molly was beginning to loathe the way Sherlock flounced into her lab and latched onto her equipment with little more than a quick query of permission. There was no pretend formality; the detective simply barged in and stole her time, her patience, her sanity...

Regrettably, it was not a habit that would cease with love, be it Molly's or John's or anyone's.

"I read the blog," he began, detached tone laced with petulance. "I don't see what you found so positive in his drivel."

"Yes, you did," she replied without looking at Sherlock. "You just want me to confirm your findings."

"I am in need of-"

"Yes, yes, I get it; you need another opinion. Well, mine's invalid, considering I am emotionally involved. If you really want to know what's going on, why don't you just address the issue directly?"

The pathologist turned away from her upgraded computer to direct her attention fully on Sherlock. She froze when she beheld his distraught expression, the complete opposite of the icy mask she knew. Perhaps their conversation wouldn't be as difficult as she anticipated.

"I'm not good with emotions, you know," he chided.

"Then try. Learn. Very few people are adept with emotions naturally, especially in situations like this." Molly didn't know how to help him, didn't know how to advise Sherlock about feelings when she'd harbored them on him for years, and her scant relationships meant little to her in comparison with her feelings for him. Unless... "Here," she offered, "practice with me. Pretend I'm John; it might help."

Sherlock hesitated uneasily. "Wouldn't that be... not good?"

"I'll be fine."

"No, not at all. You're lying."

"Look, I know my feelings are unrequited. I'm getting over you, just in my own way. Yes, this will hurt, but your happiness is more important. Besides, I have a date tonight." Guilt twisted her stomach at the thought of using Jim, but she ignored it. Molly wasn't doing anything wrong. Besides, Jim certainly wasn't in love with her, not yet. They'd only just met, after all.

"My happiness isn't guaranteed. This could be entirely futile," Sherlock grumbled.

"Not helping, Sherlock."

"Neither would practicing. There's nothing I have to say on the matter, nothing that needs saying, nor would it ever be said if it did," Sherlock refused, his hands shaking lightly as they fiddled with a pen.

"Just trying to help," Molly replied. "I thought maybe that's what you wanted."

Sherlock's gaze softened. "You've already been helpful, Molly. More than you know."

Their eyes locked for a moment before Molly tore herself away, shaking slightly.

She couldn't understand how John couldn't fall in love with Sherlock, if this was the man he saw.


	11. Chapter 11

**Mrs. Hudson's POV**

* * *

It was, without question, one of the most emotional nights of her life. There were many nightmares she'd survived, many abuses suffered and weaknesses exploited, but nothing had affected her this strongly, if not because of the events themselves, then because of the participants.

Her tumultuous sleep had been interrupted with a loud bang and barely-muffled curses. Mrs. Hudson knew, naturally, that it was her boys entering the flat so late, for reasons entirely different than she'd hoped, and she rushed to them instinctively. Upon reaching the entrance, she froze. The men leaned against the wall, mirroring the fateful night in which their friendship was cemented, except she wasn't witnessing bouts of adrenaline-fueled laughter and loving glances.

The sight before her was harsher, colder, yet infinitely more intense. John had left alone, grumbling about Sarah, and Sherlock had dashed out afterwards, resolute features strengthened with ice and stone. Now, they returned together, and the silence was no less uncomfortable than the detective's fleeting expression as he vanished into the night hours ago.

They noticed her simultaneously, their gazes flying from the staircase to her. Any pretense of apathy was abandoned by Sherlock as he grasped John at the waist. Mrs. Hudson's heart fluttered, and she wondered what had happened at Sarah's to earn such unnecessary contact. The doctor's lips stretched into a relieved grin upon seeing her, and he lurched forward. Sherlock's arms left him for a moment, only to snake around him again when his face nearly slammed into the ground. Upon witnessing the doctor's exhaustion, Mrs. Hudson denounced her previous assumption.

Whatever happened clearly had nothing to do with Sarah.

"John? What happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Nothing, we're fine," Sherlock replied.

"Moriarty captured me," John interjected, and the detective's hold tightened as his eyes narrowed into a glare. "He got me when I was going to Sarah's, and he strapped a bomb to me. Sherlock rescued me," the doctor explained. ignoring Sherlock's annoyance.

"I didn't rescue you," Sherlock argued.

John rolled his eyes. "I would've been blown to bits had you not been there. You hadn't gone to get me, that's true, but you saved me regardless."

"Are you two alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she rushed forward, scanning them for injuries. "You need to rest, the both of you. You two look exhausted, and you shouldn't be running about, playing with your experiments or reading, and tomorrow the both of you aren't going anywhere," she prattled as she led them upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, we have to go tomorrow; Lestrade needs-"

"If he needs you so badly," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, "then he can come here, but you two aren't leaving. I'll barricade the door if I must."

Surprisingly, Sherlock chuckled. "I've no doubt that you would do that. Come along, John; we best do what she tells us."

The trio made it up the stairs without hassle, Mrs. Hudson's presence glaringly unnecessary though welcome. The detective continued to wrap himself around the doctor, who leaned (melted) into the half-embrace with little resistance. No words were spoken as they entered the upstairs flat, the boys nearly collapsing on their respective chairs whilst she made them tea, her insistence to mother them weakly, if not politely, protested.

Low murmurs drifted into the kitchen, their low voices mixing comfortably with the hum of the kettle. Mrs. Hudson tried to allow the men privacy; however, their conversation grew too loud and earnest for her to ignore. Smothering her guilt in favor of humoring her curiosity, the landlady strained her ears to hear them.

"-and you really ought to be more careful. How many more times are you going to be kidnapped?"

"It's not like I ask for it!" John snapped. "I don't just walk up to these people and demand that they take me, and it's only happened twice."

"Both times with Sarah, and both times because of me. Maybe you should just give both of us up. It would definitely spare us all of the inconvenience of rescuing you."

"Maybe I should." There was a heavy, tense pause, and the doctor sighed. "Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe you should stop worrying about me so much."

"How can I, when you're always doing something stupid like getting kidnapped?"

"You don't worry about other kidnapping victims, so why am I any different?" Shuffling could be heard, and the landlady peaked into the living room. She was surprised to find that the two men were no longer sitting; rather, they stood chest-to-chest, and their eyes were narrowed into glares. "Why does it matter so much whether _I _get kidnapped?"

"Because you are my friend," Sherlock stated dispassionately.

John's glare softened a touch. "Friend?"

"My only friend," Sherlock unnecessarily amended. The words hung heavily in the air, ensnared by tension and fire. Shivers danced down Mrs. Hudson's spine.

"I wasn't..." John trailed off.

"I know. I thought you should know, anyway."

John clearly didn't know how to interpret Sherlock's words; he fumbled, his glare nonexistent as he dropped his gaze from the detective's blazing eyes to the dull ground. "Why?" John finally asked, not unkindly.

"We could've died tonight," Sherlock explained. "I thought it would be foolish not to tell you."

John nodded and cleared his throat. "I can't say that you're the only friend I've ever had."

"I know."

"You are, however, the only one that's really mattered to me."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, a smile tugging his lips upward despite his obvious bewilderment. Had the situation not been intense to Mrs. Hudson, she would've laughed at his comical expression.

John did. He chuckled as he met the detective's gaze, now steely with annoyance. "You didn't know that already?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

"Make me."

Sherlock's annoyance melted away, replaced with a malicious smirk, and he pressed his lips against John's, smothering the chuckles. John's hands clasped Sherlock's waist, and-

The kettle whistled loudly, shattering the moment. John flinched but didn't move away from Sherlock. Idly, Mrs. Hudson wondered whether or not the doctor was as exhausted as he acted; he certainly seemed to come alive during their conversation.

Then again, their intensity probably could've resurrected the dead.

Neither Sherlock nor John looked her direction, though they didn't say a word as she slunk back into the kitchen, prepared their cuppas, and carried them into the living room. When she returned, she found that they had fallen into their seats once more, though the room seemed to be bathed in a warm glow. The ominous undertones of Moriarty and his bomb were overpowered by the remnants of the exchange she'd witnessed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said as he reached for his steaming mug.

Sherlock nodded once and began to sip his beverage.

It appeared as though they weren't going to acknowledge the drastic change in their relationship; though she was certain Sherlock was aware of her eavesdropping. Normally, she would've let it slide, let their development go unacknowledged until they chose to tell her about it, but Mrs. Hudson wasn't feeling merciful that night.

"The walls are rather thin, dears, so if you want to have a romp in the hay, perhaps you should do so in John's room."

She smirked triumphantly as she descended the stairs at the sounds of broken china, embarrassed splutters, and husky, baritone chuckling.

* * *

****If the sappiness in this chapter has absolutely disgusted you, blame Death Note and my friend, The Grand Sociopath (you horrid little turtle :D), for emotionally devastating me with character deaths and new fandoms to sell my nonexistent soul to. I needed some serious sap to counteract the waterfall of tears drowning everyone in my path.****

**Thank you very much for reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing! I'll miss this story very much, as it has been fun toying with different point of views to illustrate the fantastic-ness that is Johnlock. A sequel may or may not pop up, depending on my schedule, but if it does, expect it to arrive in January. **


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